I'll confess up front that I am not a very good housecleaner.
I always start out strong, but then I tire of the repetition. I run out of time for deep-cleaning. I get distracted by other, more interesting chores.
And also, I have a fatalistic attitude about housecleaning: no matter how much I clean, it is never enough.
I've lost count of the number of times that I have diligently cleaned house for company, welcomed them into my home, and then as we sit talking see a cobweb some where in plain view. It has happened so often now that I expect to see some obvious sign of dirt when there are guests in my house.
Not long ago it happened again. I welcomed a small group of very nice people to my home. We had dinner and then moved to the living room to converse. Yep, you guessed it, a glob of fuzz was perched precariously on the ceiling fan blade. I totally lost track of the conversation as I expected the offending dirtball to dislodge and float down onto someone's face.
I wonder sometimes if the cobwebs and fuzzballs don't hide during my housecleaning and emerge stealthily when the company arrives. It sounds like a paranoid delusion, but it just might be true.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
People in waiting rooms
Lately I've been in several waiting rooms, waiting. In some cases, waiting for a very long time. What to do? Well, what is everyone else doing? That's when I noticed that there are certain types of folks in waiting rooms. Have you seen these people?
- The mother wrasseling with a very active small child (and I did mean wrasseling -- not wrestling)
- The middle-aged woman deeply engrossed in a romance novel with a startlingly explicit cover
- The older man, elbows on knees, endlessly grooming his fingernails (and showering the floor with clippings)
- The person talking on the cell phone
- The young person, eyes closed, tapping the armrests, with earbuds and wires disappearing to a pocket. (Hope there is a ipod in there!)
- The person turning rapidly through old magazines, not stopping to read anything
- The person playing a game on the cell phone
- The person sorting through things in the wallet, creating a pile of trash in the next chair
- The two people talking quietly in a corner
- The person who paces outside the door and opens the door periodically to check status
- The person who is just watching everyone else.........
Monday, October 27, 2008
Plenty
Not long ago I was given a prescription by my doctor. When I got home with the medicine, I looked at the instructions on the bottle. I saw the usual dosage directions – one capsule two times each day – but I also saw additional warnings and admonitions affixed to the little plastic container.
One preprinted label advised that I should not take the capsule within two hours of taking vitamins, calcium supplements, or other specific medicines.
Hmmmm. Since I take supplements of various kinds first thing in the morning and at bedtime, I decided that I would take some of the capsules to my office and try to remember to take them mid-morning. I would take the second dose when I get home from work – which should be two hours before my bedtime. This is just a 30-day regimen, so I can do this.
The next preprinted label stumped me.
After the specificity of the number of capsules per day and the two-hour space from other substances, I was puzzled to read, “Take with plenty of water.” I don’t know about you, but to me “plenty” is a pretty loosey-goosey term.
I went to my handy American Heritage Dictionary where I read the first definition of plenty: “A full or completely adequate amount or supply.”
In my experience, plenty means different things at different times. If we are talking about one of my favorite foods, plenty might be a large amount; If we are talking about some food I barely tolerate, plenty is a pretty small serving.
Plenty of water for a bath differs greatly from plenty of water for a carwash or to water the lawn.
Even for drinking, plenty of water seems nebulous to me. If you are working hard in the hot sun, plenty of water will likely be more than if you are sitting at a desk in an air-conditioned office.
So, my conclusion is that the authorities (the pharmacist? The Food and Drug Administration? The drug manufacturer?) are leaving this part of my pill taking up to me. I get to decide just how much water with the capsule is plenty.
Which made me wonder: if I am wrong and I drink too little water, will I know? What will be the signal that I didn’t swallow plenty of water with the capsule?
Will it stick in my esophagus? Will it tear up my stomach? Will I develop serious digestive discomfort of some kind? Or will I not know until years later when the damage is discovered?
Normally, I’m a good decision-maker..... willing to rely on my own good judgment.
This time, however, I find myself going back for more water -- just to make certain I get plenty.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Farmers' Market
This morning we went to a farmers' market. I don't think the people there would necessarily call themselves farmers -- but that's really beside the point, I guess.
It was a collection of people who came to offer for sale what they had produced. Around the perimeter were mostly food stalls; in the center were mostely jewelry, ceramics, and art. At one end, you could find inflatible (what do you call them? they aren't rides or toys.........pens?) for children's play.
Many of the vegetables were organic. The beef and lamb was grassfed. The chickens were also specially raised. There were artisan breads and honey. There were tamales cooked in banana leaves. Various special teas were available, and there were specialty coffee drinks too. At each stall you could meet the person who had raised or blended or brewed it.
It was all much more personal than the grocery store. You could ask questions and get answers. And there seemed to be so much pride in what they were offering.
Often they didn't have a huge amount of their wares. When they sold out, they just stood around visiting with people.
And the shoppers were different too. Many had their dogs with them. They looked relaxed and often carried a cup or tea or coffee as they strolled along, enjoying the market.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that there was a singer with a guitar performing in an area between the fresh lavendar and the homemade dog biscuits. His genial sound floated throughout the market, adding a soundtrack to the morning.
It was an altogether delightful experience. My regular grocery store will never feel the same now. And I got great tomatoes.
It was a collection of people who came to offer for sale what they had produced. Around the perimeter were mostly food stalls; in the center were mostely jewelry, ceramics, and art. At one end, you could find inflatible (what do you call them? they aren't rides or toys.........pens?) for children's play.
Many of the vegetables were organic. The beef and lamb was grassfed. The chickens were also specially raised. There were artisan breads and honey. There were tamales cooked in banana leaves. Various special teas were available, and there were specialty coffee drinks too. At each stall you could meet the person who had raised or blended or brewed it.
It was all much more personal than the grocery store. You could ask questions and get answers. And there seemed to be so much pride in what they were offering.
Often they didn't have a huge amount of their wares. When they sold out, they just stood around visiting with people.
And the shoppers were different too. Many had their dogs with them. They looked relaxed and often carried a cup or tea or coffee as they strolled along, enjoying the market.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that there was a singer with a guitar performing in an area between the fresh lavendar and the homemade dog biscuits. His genial sound floated throughout the market, adding a soundtrack to the morning.
It was an altogether delightful experience. My regular grocery store will never feel the same now. And I got great tomatoes.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Waiting rooms
In my experience, waiting rooms have always had a sort of sterile commonality about them. They have usually been characterized by too many chairs packed uncomfortably close and tattered magazines. I have combated these discomforts by trying to select my seat strategically and carrying my own reading material.
Doctors’ waiting rooms have pluses and minuses. Generally, they are clean and air conditioned, and the chairs are pretty comfortable. Usually there are enough chairs to allow patients to sit in every other chair so that some personal space is possible. Sometimes there is a television in the corner. Occasionally, coffee or a water fountain is available. The downside is that there are sick people all around you, often coughing on you, generally making it scary to touch any surfaces.
Waiting rooms in automotive services facilities are quite different. Often there are only a minimum number of seats, the area is sometimes un-airconditioned, and often it is dirty, as though late at night the grime from the shop creeps into the customer area. Whether I’m waiting to have tires put on the car or waiting for an oil change or whatever, I find that these kinds of waiting rooms make me pace around – partly because there aren’t enough chairs and partly because I suspect that I will end up with grease and grime on my clothes if I try to sit.
Up until today, my favorite waiting rooms were at airports. There the waiting room is not an afterthought; it’s part of the overall plan. While other waiting rooms are usually close quarters, the airport waiting areas are expansive. They are usually clean, have lots of windows, and the many seats are usually fairly comfortable. Additionally, there are plenty of nearby restrooms and shops for browsing or purchasing snacks or reading material. All in all, not a bad place to be, to my way of thinking.
Today, however, I have experienced the ultimate in waiting rooms.
A few years ago, I splurged and got an upscale car. The regular maintenance is provided by the dealership at no additional cost -- you make an appointment, they change the oil or whatever, wash the car, and you drive away. They call you by name. They (through the miracle of a good data base) know you and know your car. Very nice.
The last time I brought my car in, the waiting room was a fairly standard affair – although they did have a cappachino machine and crispy cream donuts. But the seats were close together and limited in number. At the time, they apologized and told me that they were building a new customer area. I had forgotten that when I took my car in this morning.
Once the obligatory paperwork was done, the nice man led me to the customer area. He showed me the plush leather seating and flat screen CNN news area, and then he showed me the internet kiosks available for my use. Next came the options of a peaceful seating area around a gorgeous aquarium. Next was the complimentary coffee bar with an on-duty barrista, the beautifully tiled restrooms, a shopping area, a snack bar with complimentary cold water and sodas, and a series of small office areas where I could work. Oh, and how could I forget: there was a small theater where classic movies played.
Honestly -- and I never thought I would say this -- it was a pleasure to spend time in this customer waiting area! Rather than chafe at how long the service took, I found myself sorry when it was time to leave. (I had used one of the small office areas and had accomplished more work than I would have at my office!) Clearly, this company understands the good will associated with making customers comfortable.
Of course, I reflected ruefully, the cost of my upscale car was certainly paying for all this luxury. But still, all that comfort was a nice surprise this morning and made me reflect on the many improvements that could be made to most waiting rooms in this world. It really wouldn’t be necessary to go over the top like this dealership did – just a little attention to those untended waiting rooms would certainly pay great dividends!
Doctors’ waiting rooms have pluses and minuses. Generally, they are clean and air conditioned, and the chairs are pretty comfortable. Usually there are enough chairs to allow patients to sit in every other chair so that some personal space is possible. Sometimes there is a television in the corner. Occasionally, coffee or a water fountain is available. The downside is that there are sick people all around you, often coughing on you, generally making it scary to touch any surfaces.
Waiting rooms in automotive services facilities are quite different. Often there are only a minimum number of seats, the area is sometimes un-airconditioned, and often it is dirty, as though late at night the grime from the shop creeps into the customer area. Whether I’m waiting to have tires put on the car or waiting for an oil change or whatever, I find that these kinds of waiting rooms make me pace around – partly because there aren’t enough chairs and partly because I suspect that I will end up with grease and grime on my clothes if I try to sit.
Up until today, my favorite waiting rooms were at airports. There the waiting room is not an afterthought; it’s part of the overall plan. While other waiting rooms are usually close quarters, the airport waiting areas are expansive. They are usually clean, have lots of windows, and the many seats are usually fairly comfortable. Additionally, there are plenty of nearby restrooms and shops for browsing or purchasing snacks or reading material. All in all, not a bad place to be, to my way of thinking.
Today, however, I have experienced the ultimate in waiting rooms.
A few years ago, I splurged and got an upscale car. The regular maintenance is provided by the dealership at no additional cost -- you make an appointment, they change the oil or whatever, wash the car, and you drive away. They call you by name. They (through the miracle of a good data base) know you and know your car. Very nice.
The last time I brought my car in, the waiting room was a fairly standard affair – although they did have a cappachino machine and crispy cream donuts. But the seats were close together and limited in number. At the time, they apologized and told me that they were building a new customer area. I had forgotten that when I took my car in this morning.
Once the obligatory paperwork was done, the nice man led me to the customer area. He showed me the plush leather seating and flat screen CNN news area, and then he showed me the internet kiosks available for my use. Next came the options of a peaceful seating area around a gorgeous aquarium. Next was the complimentary coffee bar with an on-duty barrista, the beautifully tiled restrooms, a shopping area, a snack bar with complimentary cold water and sodas, and a series of small office areas where I could work. Oh, and how could I forget: there was a small theater where classic movies played.
Honestly -- and I never thought I would say this -- it was a pleasure to spend time in this customer waiting area! Rather than chafe at how long the service took, I found myself sorry when it was time to leave. (I had used one of the small office areas and had accomplished more work than I would have at my office!) Clearly, this company understands the good will associated with making customers comfortable.
Of course, I reflected ruefully, the cost of my upscale car was certainly paying for all this luxury. But still, all that comfort was a nice surprise this morning and made me reflect on the many improvements that could be made to most waiting rooms in this world. It really wouldn’t be necessary to go over the top like this dealership did – just a little attention to those untended waiting rooms would certainly pay great dividends!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Choices
My grocery store has choices.
We live in a world of choices now. We Americans like choices. Choices are a part of our independence, our right of self-assertion, our exercise of control over our surroundings.
Burger King picked up on this assumed inalienable right decades ago with the "Have it your way" campaign. The jingle was "Hold the pickles. Hold the lettuce. Special orders don't upset us!"
Since that time, our choices have multiplied to an alarming level. Have you looked at the number of cereals in the breakfast aisle or the number of salad dressings a few rows over? Or even within a single brand -- have you seen how many different kinds of Coke beckon on the soft drink aisle?
It's choice-overload. How do you ever decide?
And now it has spread to the front door -- where you must decide what kind of cart you want.
You can choose the traditional grocery cart. It is large and can accommodate many items or very large or heavy items. Not long ago that was the only option. It was either that cart or do without -- carry your purchases in your arms.
Now, instead of the standard cart, you can have a handbasket if you want to get just a few items. Also, a while back, my store added kiddie carts so that the little ones could feel the thrill of driving a race car attached to the front of mom's grocery vehicle. Cute. And of course there is the motorized cart for folks with limited mobility. Thoughtful.
My favorite cart, however, is the newest model. It's a compact cart, a cute little thing that can turn on a dime. I love it. Just big enough for a few things -- a few hundred dollars worth (but better than the handbasket which gets too heavy fast; one gallon of milk and a carton of orange juice will cause the handles to cut into your palm!)
And I've noticed that these sporty little carts are very popular. The other day in the store a nice looking businessman zipped past me to get the last of the little carts for himself. In fact, several times lately there have been none available when I arrive -- they have all been scarfed up by shoppers who arrived earlier.
My concern now is that the store will start to charge for the joy of driving this popular new cart. Then I'll be faced with yet another choice!
We live in a world of choices now. We Americans like choices. Choices are a part of our independence, our right of self-assertion, our exercise of control over our surroundings.
Burger King picked up on this assumed inalienable right decades ago with the "Have it your way" campaign. The jingle was "Hold the pickles. Hold the lettuce. Special orders don't upset us!"
Since that time, our choices have multiplied to an alarming level. Have you looked at the number of cereals in the breakfast aisle or the number of salad dressings a few rows over? Or even within a single brand -- have you seen how many different kinds of Coke beckon on the soft drink aisle?
It's choice-overload. How do you ever decide?
And now it has spread to the front door -- where you must decide what kind of cart you want.
You can choose the traditional grocery cart. It is large and can accommodate many items or very large or heavy items. Not long ago that was the only option. It was either that cart or do without -- carry your purchases in your arms.
Now, instead of the standard cart, you can have a handbasket if you want to get just a few items. Also, a while back, my store added kiddie carts so that the little ones could feel the thrill of driving a race car attached to the front of mom's grocery vehicle. Cute. And of course there is the motorized cart for folks with limited mobility. Thoughtful.
My favorite cart, however, is the newest model. It's a compact cart, a cute little thing that can turn on a dime. I love it. Just big enough for a few things -- a few hundred dollars worth (but better than the handbasket which gets too heavy fast; one gallon of milk and a carton of orange juice will cause the handles to cut into your palm!)
And I've noticed that these sporty little carts are very popular. The other day in the store a nice looking businessman zipped past me to get the last of the little carts for himself. In fact, several times lately there have been none available when I arrive -- they have all been scarfed up by shoppers who arrived earlier.
My concern now is that the store will start to charge for the joy of driving this popular new cart. Then I'll be faced with yet another choice!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Bag dissonance
The baggage claim area in airports is a fascinating place to me. I've been there a lot lately (which means that my work is causing me to travel a good bit these days).
In one airport I was distracted by what seemed a strange sight to me.
A very tall (maybe 6'6"?) cowboy with impossibly long legs, jeans, plaid shirt, big belt buckle, and boots was striding through the terminal. He was obviously a real rancher -- not the drug-store type at all. His skin was bronzed by wind and heat. His easy pace contrasted with his obvious strength and energy.
He was an interesting character (I love people watching) as he moved through the baggage carousels, searching for checked bags like the rest of us. You can imagine my surprise when he picked up a cute little red bag with white polka dots.
Then it happened again in another airport.
In one airport I was distracted by what seemed a strange sight to me.
A very tall (maybe 6'6"?) cowboy with impossibly long legs, jeans, plaid shirt, big belt buckle, and boots was striding through the terminal. He was obviously a real rancher -- not the drug-store type at all. His skin was bronzed by wind and heat. His easy pace contrasted with his obvious strength and energy.
He was an interesting character (I love people watching) as he moved through the baggage carousels, searching for checked bags like the rest of us. You can imagine my surprise when he picked up a cute little red bag with white polka dots.
Then it happened again in another airport.
This time there was a trio of middle-aged guys. They were casually dressed in khaki shorts and pullover shirts. They were excitedly talking about where they were going together. The first one claimed a nondescript black bag. The next grabbed a dark blue duffel bag. The last fellow picked up a bright yellow bag with flowers on it.
What's going on with this?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Plane travel
Have you ever noticed the rules of plane travel? It's an intriguing segment of social psychology. I may write a brief how-to guide. Here's the outline of the chapters:
1. Ritual of boarding
only when it's your turn
look at people but don't meet eyes
fashion parade and the joy of human variety
2. Strategic bag placement in the overheads
for accessibility during flight
for protecting delicate contents
for rapid deplaning
little people with very heavy bags
3. Aisle sitters and window sitters -- and those poor folks stuck in between
talkers, readers, sleepers, workers, ipodsters and how to deal with each
close quarters but no touching (we hope)
4. Announcements and other ritual news
in case of a loss of cabin pressure
emergency aisles and whether you feel you can accept the responsibility
flotation devices over Kansas
5. The refreshment cart and other signs of hope
passing the cup
art of getting seconds
when it's acceptable to help pass the trash to the aisle
6. The trek to the toilet
how to look cool/professional/sophisticated when you need to go (badly)
tiny spaces: getting stuck, getting bruised
terrorized by inflight flushing
7. Blankets and pillows (finding them, claiming them)
magazine racks, inflight movies, audio for everyone
sanitary earphones
8. Seat backs and tray tables
acceptable use (no, you can't stack your stuff on my table!)
in case of broken tables/ seat backs/ lopsided cushions
full and upright positions
seatbelt extenders
9. Inflight magazines (and the ubiquitous Sky Mall catalog!)
what is the airline really telling me?
do you work the crossword or leave it for the next passenger?
10. This is your captain speaking
"making up time" -- the physics of flight and time travel
some turbulence (and other euphemisms)
11. Welcome to wherever
orderly disembarking
cell phone cacophony (in unison: "we just landed")
overheads/some shifting may have occurred
why your connecting flight is in another terminal
12. Thanks for choosing us
unclaimed baggage and other psychological problems
1. Ritual of boarding
only when it's your turn
look at people but don't meet eyes
fashion parade and the joy of human variety
2. Strategic bag placement in the overheads
for accessibility during flight
for protecting delicate contents
for rapid deplaning
little people with very heavy bags
3. Aisle sitters and window sitters -- and those poor folks stuck in between
talkers, readers, sleepers, workers, ipodsters and how to deal with each
close quarters but no touching (we hope)
4. Announcements and other ritual news
in case of a loss of cabin pressure
emergency aisles and whether you feel you can accept the responsibility
flotation devices over Kansas
5. The refreshment cart and other signs of hope
passing the cup
art of getting seconds
when it's acceptable to help pass the trash to the aisle
6. The trek to the toilet
how to look cool/professional/sophisticated when you need to go (badly)
tiny spaces: getting stuck, getting bruised
terrorized by inflight flushing
7. Blankets and pillows (finding them, claiming them)
magazine racks, inflight movies, audio for everyone
sanitary earphones
8. Seat backs and tray tables
acceptable use (no, you can't stack your stuff on my table!)
in case of broken tables/ seat backs/ lopsided cushions
full and upright positions
seatbelt extenders
9. Inflight magazines (and the ubiquitous Sky Mall catalog!)
what is the airline really telling me?
do you work the crossword or leave it for the next passenger?
10. This is your captain speaking
"making up time" -- the physics of flight and time travel
some turbulence (and other euphemisms)
11. Welcome to wherever
orderly disembarking
cell phone cacophony (in unison: "we just landed")
overheads/some shifting may have occurred
why your connecting flight is in another terminal
12. Thanks for choosing us
unclaimed baggage and other psychological problems
Friday, June 13, 2008
In awe of twilight
It was a very busy day at the conference. I had an early dinner and escaped to the quiet of my hotel room. Dog tired.
As it happened, my room is on one of the upper floors, giving a spectacular, wall-sized view of the city. I have enjoyed that view in the early morning as the sky grew lavender and then aqua. And I have enjoyed the view at night when the many building lights made it magical.
But as I entered the room tonight after dinner, my gaze was drawn to the wall of glass, overlooking the downtown scene. My hand paused as I reached for the bedside lamp. It was twilight, that time of day when the colors are muted, but still visible and the occasional light is being turned on. It's that special time of day when it isn't daylight but it isn't dark either.
Twilight has always fascinated me. It feels gentle and rich with emotion. It has an elusive character that seems to whisper 'catch me if you can.' It's a sliver of time that defies definition and beckons me somehow.
Instead of turning on the lamp, I put down my armload of things and crawled up into the center of the king-size bed. With a pile of fluffy pillows at my back and the awesome scene out the window, I felt my spirit say, 'Okay I'm watching. You have my full attention.'
For the next hour I sat in the darkening hotel room, soaking up the beauty of the twilight-turning-to-night with rapt awe. I felt like I was listening with every part of my being, feeling the luxury of the moment.
It was just what I needed after the busyness of the day.
As it happened, my room is on one of the upper floors, giving a spectacular, wall-sized view of the city. I have enjoyed that view in the early morning as the sky grew lavender and then aqua. And I have enjoyed the view at night when the many building lights made it magical.
But as I entered the room tonight after dinner, my gaze was drawn to the wall of glass, overlooking the downtown scene. My hand paused as I reached for the bedside lamp. It was twilight, that time of day when the colors are muted, but still visible and the occasional light is being turned on. It's that special time of day when it isn't daylight but it isn't dark either.
Twilight has always fascinated me. It feels gentle and rich with emotion. It has an elusive character that seems to whisper 'catch me if you can.' It's a sliver of time that defies definition and beckons me somehow.
Instead of turning on the lamp, I put down my armload of things and crawled up into the center of the king-size bed. With a pile of fluffy pillows at my back and the awesome scene out the window, I felt my spirit say, 'Okay I'm watching. You have my full attention.'
For the next hour I sat in the darkening hotel room, soaking up the beauty of the twilight-turning-to-night with rapt awe. I felt like I was listening with every part of my being, feeling the luxury of the moment.
It was just what I needed after the busyness of the day.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Fish fry
When I was growing up my retired grandparents loved to drag their little trailor to a lake and fish for a few days. This usually involved going some distance because we lived in west Texas, which isn't exactly the lake-region of the state.
They would make several trips of this sort and then would announce a "fish fry" for family and friends. We would gather in the back yard, a rectangle of spiky barely-alive grass surrounded by a concrete block fence.... no trees, no shrubs, no patio. My grandad would fire up a butane-powered deep fry rig and start cooking. My grandmother was in charge of everything else. It was always wonderful, and we all looked forward to these periodic gatherings.
Years later in another part of the state, my husband and I became friends with a retired couple who owned property on a nearby lake and set out trot-lines regularly. When they had amassed enough of a supply, they also hosted a fish fry for their friends, usually around Memorial Day.
The fish was the same delightfully crispy, cornmeal-battered catfish. yum. The surroundings were very different, however. These central Texas events were hosted on the lake's edge, sheltered by 40-foot tall pecan trees. The grass carpeting the area was lush and soft.
But despite the physical settings, the memorable thing about both the west Texas fish fry events and the central Texas fish fry events -- was the simple sit-around-and-enjoy-each-other feeling that permeated the evening. What a delightful break from the daily hurry-up routine.
What a delightful set of summer-time memories.
They would make several trips of this sort and then would announce a "fish fry" for family and friends. We would gather in the back yard, a rectangle of spiky barely-alive grass surrounded by a concrete block fence.... no trees, no shrubs, no patio. My grandad would fire up a butane-powered deep fry rig and start cooking. My grandmother was in charge of everything else. It was always wonderful, and we all looked forward to these periodic gatherings.
Years later in another part of the state, my husband and I became friends with a retired couple who owned property on a nearby lake and set out trot-lines regularly. When they had amassed enough of a supply, they also hosted a fish fry for their friends, usually around Memorial Day.
The fish was the same delightfully crispy, cornmeal-battered catfish. yum. The surroundings were very different, however. These central Texas events were hosted on the lake's edge, sheltered by 40-foot tall pecan trees. The grass carpeting the area was lush and soft.
But despite the physical settings, the memorable thing about both the west Texas fish fry events and the central Texas fish fry events -- was the simple sit-around-and-enjoy-each-other feeling that permeated the evening. What a delightful break from the daily hurry-up routine.
What a delightful set of summer-time memories.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Hot
Good grief, the thermometer is bumping up against 100 every afternoon. With some luck, we will be back in the lower 90s by the end of the week. ugh.
I'm starting to dream of a new flextime ..... How about going to the office at 8pm and working until 5am ? That would put me back at the house in time to enjoy the really lovely part of the day from 6am until 9am when the world is cool and fresh. Then I could sleep from 10am, through noon, until 6pm when the sun's rays are beginning to angle and grow less intense.
Why not? We adopted daylight savings time during the dark winter months, right? We could adopt this through the scorching summer months. I think this could work.
Of course, this plan is dependent on good air conditioning and room-darkening shades..... and the adjustment to this rhythm might be rocky..... but we have to do something!
I'm starting to dream of a new flextime ..... How about going to the office at 8pm and working until 5am ? That would put me back at the house in time to enjoy the really lovely part of the day from 6am until 9am when the world is cool and fresh. Then I could sleep from 10am, through noon, until 6pm when the sun's rays are beginning to angle and grow less intense.
Why not? We adopted daylight savings time during the dark winter months, right? We could adopt this through the scorching summer months. I think this could work.
Of course, this plan is dependent on good air conditioning and room-darkening shades..... and the adjustment to this rhythm might be rocky..... but we have to do something!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Rolling down the road
Car trips are a special kind of travel. I recently did quite a bit of riding/driving over a span of several days, and I was reminded of the joys associated with this particular form of transportation.
It's almost axiomatic in our family that car trips are a great time for conversation. You are sitting close together. There are few interruptions (although cell phones have changed this a bit). There is enough time -- usually several hours -- for leisurely storytelling, discussing, sharing. And there isn't much else to do, assuming that you don't retreat to headphones or sleeping (riders, hopefully not drivers!)
From my youngest years, I have loved to look out the windows while riding in a car. I like to see the countryside between towns and I love to imagine living in the houses we pass and small towns we pass through. It is a stimulating experience to leave your normal environs and see something new. I always feel free, unfettered.
Riding in the car is also a great time for introspection/reflection. We occasionally fall into a companionable silence, zipping down the road together but lost in our own thoughts. The crazier and more hectic our world becomes, the more I cherish these little islands of silence and peace and isolation from my normal duties.
Another great joy for me on car trips is listening. I love to hear audiobooks in the car as I travel. Maybe this is a holdover from childhood, but there is something really fun about having something new and interesting read to you. I am a voracious reader and go through a huge pile of books each year, but I get a deep down enjoyment from listening to someone else read once in a while.
Perhaps I'll plan another car trip soon.
As soon as I save up enough money for gas.
It's almost axiomatic in our family that car trips are a great time for conversation. You are sitting close together. There are few interruptions (although cell phones have changed this a bit). There is enough time -- usually several hours -- for leisurely storytelling, discussing, sharing. And there isn't much else to do, assuming that you don't retreat to headphones or sleeping (riders, hopefully not drivers!)
From my youngest years, I have loved to look out the windows while riding in a car. I like to see the countryside between towns and I love to imagine living in the houses we pass and small towns we pass through. It is a stimulating experience to leave your normal environs and see something new. I always feel free, unfettered.
Riding in the car is also a great time for introspection/reflection. We occasionally fall into a companionable silence, zipping down the road together but lost in our own thoughts. The crazier and more hectic our world becomes, the more I cherish these little islands of silence and peace and isolation from my normal duties.
Another great joy for me on car trips is listening. I love to hear audiobooks in the car as I travel. Maybe this is a holdover from childhood, but there is something really fun about having something new and interesting read to you. I am a voracious reader and go through a huge pile of books each year, but I get a deep down enjoyment from listening to someone else read once in a while.
Perhaps I'll plan another car trip soon.
As soon as I save up enough money for gas.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Huh?
I don't know about you, but in the past few years I have found myself talking to people who aren't talking to me. (insert your own joke here)
More than once in the grocery store, a person in my aisle has said something and I have replied -- only to realize that the person was asking someone over the phone where to find the green beans. I've grown cautious about being helpful.
In a large department store, I have replied to people -- and then noticed that the person was talking on a walkie talkie. My mistake.
But today's experience tops all previous ones.
Today I went to well-known electronics store and soon sought out a young employee to answer a few questions about the product I was considering. A few moments into our conversation, I was stunned when the store employee said loudly, "You'll have to handle that yourself. I'm busy."
I know I must have looked shocked, because she smiled and explained that she was talking to another store employee and indicated the microphone pinned to her blouse.
I chuckled and asked my next question. But before she replied to me, she stared straight into my eyes and said loudly and forcefully, "I can't help you now. Get Mike or someone to do it!"
I have to admit that I totally lost my train of thought.
Over the next few minutes, she talked to me and to a fellow store employee in such an intermingled manner that I finally said, "I'm sorry but I can't tell when you are talking to me and when you are talking to someone else."
It was absolutely the most disconcerting shopping experience of my life!
I've already said that I may have to buy all my groceries online.
Now I'm thinking I may just buy everything online.
More than once in the grocery store, a person in my aisle has said something and I have replied -- only to realize that the person was asking someone over the phone where to find the green beans. I've grown cautious about being helpful.
In a large department store, I have replied to people -- and then noticed that the person was talking on a walkie talkie. My mistake.
But today's experience tops all previous ones.
Today I went to well-known electronics store and soon sought out a young employee to answer a few questions about the product I was considering. A few moments into our conversation, I was stunned when the store employee said loudly, "You'll have to handle that yourself. I'm busy."
I know I must have looked shocked, because she smiled and explained that she was talking to another store employee and indicated the microphone pinned to her blouse.
I chuckled and asked my next question. But before she replied to me, she stared straight into my eyes and said loudly and forcefully, "I can't help you now. Get Mike or someone to do it!"
I have to admit that I totally lost my train of thought.
Over the next few minutes, she talked to me and to a fellow store employee in such an intermingled manner that I finally said, "I'm sorry but I can't tell when you are talking to me and when you are talking to someone else."
It was absolutely the most disconcerting shopping experience of my life!
I've already said that I may have to buy all my groceries online.
Now I'm thinking I may just buy everything online.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Color coordination
Years ago when my future husband showed up at the dorm for our first date, we were amused by the fact that we were both wearing the unlikely color combination of red and turquoise. This story has led to the inevitable comments about us being meant for each other (not always intended as a compliment, I suspect).
At the office when our teams meet, we often note that a majority of us are wearing the same color -- often an uncommon color. Over the years, this has developed into a ritual comment: "Ah, I see you got the memo!"
Last weekend my son drove into town for a quick weekend visit. When I saw him drive up, I went outside to welcome him. He stepped out of his car, smiling, and then stopped. He looked down at his clothes and back at mine. We had on the same color jeans, same white t-shirt, and a coral-colored overshirt (his was a polo; mine was a hoodie zipped up halfway). Weird, he said.
What is going on with this stuff? It seems to happen more often than the usual random event. For a while, I thought it was a result of the fashion industry controlling what colors or color combinations are popular/available, but that doesn't pan out. Then I thought that I just hang around with people who have the same taste in color that I have, but it happens with strangers.
Perhaps it is time for a think tank somewhere to address this phenomenon. As a friend of mine remarked, "Why do we end up looking like the coordinates section of the Sears catalog?"
At the office when our teams meet, we often note that a majority of us are wearing the same color -- often an uncommon color. Over the years, this has developed into a ritual comment: "Ah, I see you got the memo!"
Last weekend my son drove into town for a quick weekend visit. When I saw him drive up, I went outside to welcome him. He stepped out of his car, smiling, and then stopped. He looked down at his clothes and back at mine. We had on the same color jeans, same white t-shirt, and a coral-colored overshirt (his was a polo; mine was a hoodie zipped up halfway). Weird, he said.
What is going on with this stuff? It seems to happen more often than the usual random event. For a while, I thought it was a result of the fashion industry controlling what colors or color combinations are popular/available, but that doesn't pan out. Then I thought that I just hang around with people who have the same taste in color that I have, but it happens with strangers.
Perhaps it is time for a think tank somewhere to address this phenomenon. As a friend of mine remarked, "Why do we end up looking like the coordinates section of the Sears catalog?"
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Name your flavor
Some say green, some say red, some say purple. It's true. No one seems ambivalent about which flavor of gatorade they prefer.
I've always preferred the original green gatorade. To me, it just doesn't seem like gatorade at all if it isn't green.
Recently I discovered that a member of my family only drinks red. How could someone in my own family want red gatorade? Red gatorade. Such an oxymoron. Like a monochromatic rainbow. Or a yellow sky.
And purple gatorade? What's the world coming to?
I've always preferred the original green gatorade. To me, it just doesn't seem like gatorade at all if it isn't green.
Recently I discovered that a member of my family only drinks red. How could someone in my own family want red gatorade? Red gatorade. Such an oxymoron. Like a monochromatic rainbow. Or a yellow sky.
And purple gatorade? What's the world coming to?
Friday, April 18, 2008
Sole man
I've been thinking about shoes.
When I was growing up, I heard several things about shoes:
When I was growing up, I heard several things about shoes:
- "The surest way to know the measure of a man is to look at his shoes. (If you see a man in a $1000 suit wearing shoes with worn-down heels or in need of polish, you know the nice suit is just a facade.)"
- "If you would truly know an indian, you must walk a mile in his moccasins."
- "Never wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day."
A strange assembly of injunctions all centering around shoes.
When I was a kid, I was blessed to have two pairs of shoes. One dress-up pair that were saved for special occasions and one everyday pair (last year's dress-up shoes if they still fit -- although they rarely did.)
We lived in hot west Texas so going barefoot was a good alternative, I thought. My mom had rules about that, however -- "no going barefoot til after May 1." (That always seemed unfairly arbitrary to me.) We did go barefooted most of the time during the summer -- at home. We were never allowed to go barefoot in public. It just wasn't done.
My most memorable childhood shoes were my ballet shoes. First, I had the classic ballet flats, and then later I had my first "toe shoes" with the glorious satin ankle laces. These shoes were my first "special purpose" shoes and were an extravagance. When I wore them, I was transformed into something graceful.
The shoe store that sold the ballet shoes had a machine in the back of the showroom where kids could stand and it would tell the salesman what size shoe was needed. I've wondered over the years exactly what that machine was. (??)
When I was in high school, my favorite shoes were a moccasin-type shoe called a "squaw boot." They had soft soles, extended up to the ankle bone, and had great fringe around the top. As I recall, I wasn't allowed to wear them to school, but I wore them everywhere else for a long while. I loved them because they were comfortable -- and because they proclaimed my individuality and independence. (Not my mother's shoe -- or anyone else of the older generation! After all, it was the 1960's.)
When I was in college, I bought a pair of navy-blue, lace-up shoes, a kind of oxford, that widened at the toe. My steady boyfriend liked them and dubbed them "duck shoes," and I wore them until they finally just fell apart. I even have pictures of myself in a frothy cinderella-style formal and the duck shoes. They were fun because they were somehow unexpected and helped me defy stereotypes.
Also when I was in college I had a pair of rust-colored suede boots that extended up to mid thigh. They had the usual zipper from the ankle up the calf, but they also had laces from the knee to the top. At the time, they were scandalous! A daring purchase.
Now why would I remember random pairs of shoes?
Maybe one reason is that -- unlike most other things we wear -- we can actually see our shoes.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Where's the beef ?
Life is filled with irritations.
- Sales calls during dinner.
- Road construction that reduces traffic to a single lane.
- Zippers that jam.
- Getting gasoline on your business clothes when you fill up on the way to work.
- Out-of-stock items.
- Office 2007.
- Plastic forks that break off in your food.
- Bubble packs that cannot be opened.
But in recent years, the grocery store nearest my house has "reorganized" the store about every 18 months or two years. Just when you learn where to find the peanut butter, it's suddenly gone from that location, replaced by organic pine nuts or something.
And you know what happens then: up and down every single aisle, some more than once, like a culinary Diogenes with his lighted lamp, until I finally locate the peanut butter in its new, seemingly random location. I hate that! And then the same routine for finding paper towels. Augh.
An aside -- yes, I know that it is a good marketing tactic to get me to walk up and down every aisle and actually LOOK at what is on the shelves. But if I am irritated, does that cancel out the marketing advantage? What if I just want to find the canola oil quickly and leave?
And if they were improving the logic of the locations, putting like-items together, that would be understandable. But no. Last night I found the peanut butter on the aisle with the cheese. And I never did find the cooking oil, so that's still on the list. It's probably in the automotive section. (We won't even talk about why there is an automotive section in the grocery store!)
I never thought I would order my groceries online, but I think I'm a step closer!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
An elevator chuckle
Each spring I attend a work-related national conference. Since I have attended this particular professional conference for 20 years, I know many people from all parts of the country, and I'm in the habit of saying hello to folks who have on the conference name badge. This is particularly true in the hotel elevators since we are in close proximity for a few minutes.
Often when I talk to these "strangers" I discover that we have met, or that we have mutual friends, or that we attended the same session at the conference and heard the same speaker. In any case, we always seem to have something to talk about for the few minutes it takes to get to the elevator stop.
One day at the conference I had been especially busy, carrying out my assignments, attending sessions, and generally doing all the things I was supposed to do. As I headed from the convention center back to the headquarters hotel, I was thinking about the speaker I had heard earlier that day at a general session: Sidney Poitier. He has always impressed me with his crisp articulation, perfect pacing, and rich intonations -- and that day he had not disappointed me! He did a masterful job of presenting to the crowd.
As I walked the short distance back to my high-rise hotel, I savored the great stories he had told and marveled at his carefully crafted, amazingly effective delivery. What a professional he is. It's even more amazing because that day he had been talking about how little education he had as a young person.
Still thinking about him, I joined a group in the elevator at the hotel and said hello to the man standing closest to me. Because we were in a very nice hotel, the elevator had all the latest technology. A deep, luxurious-sounding woman's voice crooned, "Recreation Level, fourth floor" and a musical bong punctuated the information.
The man next to me grinned and said, "That sounds good: recreation level. I would enjoy stopping on the recreation level." I grinned back and nodded. Then I laughed and said, "Actually, in more honesty, I'd prefer finding the nap level." He laughed and as the elevator door opened on his floor, he moved out.
Only then did I notice the man on the other side of him. He chuckled, looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and then said in his very familiar, perfectly articulated voice, "Nap level . . . I really like that." Apparently, we were stopped at the floor where his room was located too because he moved forward, following the first man off the elevator.
Mark it on my calendar. It was the day I made Sidney Poitier chuckle.
Often when I talk to these "strangers" I discover that we have met, or that we have mutual friends, or that we attended the same session at the conference and heard the same speaker. In any case, we always seem to have something to talk about for the few minutes it takes to get to the elevator stop.
One day at the conference I had been especially busy, carrying out my assignments, attending sessions, and generally doing all the things I was supposed to do. As I headed from the convention center back to the headquarters hotel, I was thinking about the speaker I had heard earlier that day at a general session: Sidney Poitier. He has always impressed me with his crisp articulation, perfect pacing, and rich intonations -- and that day he had not disappointed me! He did a masterful job of presenting to the crowd.
As I walked the short distance back to my high-rise hotel, I savored the great stories he had told and marveled at his carefully crafted, amazingly effective delivery. What a professional he is. It's even more amazing because that day he had been talking about how little education he had as a young person.
Still thinking about him, I joined a group in the elevator at the hotel and said hello to the man standing closest to me. Because we were in a very nice hotel, the elevator had all the latest technology. A deep, luxurious-sounding woman's voice crooned, "Recreation Level, fourth floor" and a musical bong punctuated the information.
The man next to me grinned and said, "That sounds good: recreation level. I would enjoy stopping on the recreation level." I grinned back and nodded. Then I laughed and said, "Actually, in more honesty, I'd prefer finding the nap level." He laughed and as the elevator door opened on his floor, he moved out.
Only then did I notice the man on the other side of him. He chuckled, looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and then said in his very familiar, perfectly articulated voice, "Nap level . . . I really like that." Apparently, we were stopped at the floor where his room was located too because he moved forward, following the first man off the elevator.
Mark it on my calendar. It was the day I made Sidney Poitier chuckle.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Luggage carousels
Today I was in baggage claim at an airport. Usually I am all business, wanting to get my bag and get out. But today I noticed that I was having trouble watching for my luggage because I was continually distracted by the people around me waiting on their stuff. They were so entertaining!
Some people elbow their way up to the initial spots along the conveyor. Some people take a spot further down the route where there is less congestion. Others stand back, watching, and then dart through the line for a just-in-time bag retreival.
Some people are "informers" who announce to the crowd, "there it is!" and then "here it comes" and then "ah........ got it!" They apprarently think everyone else in the area is gathered to watch them get their luggage. Perhaps they are surprised that there is no applause when they triumphantly carry their bags out.
Others are completely preoccupied with their cell phone conversations and only glance toward the bags occasionally, as though picking up the bag is the least important thing they are doing that day. I used to think there must be some billion dollar deal going on -- but then I heard a guy say 'do we also need milk?'
It's fun to guess which bags belong to which people, especially the unusual bags. Can I spot the person who will retreive the golf clubs or the serious backpacking gear? Which one will grab the purple and pink flowered bag? This time there was a suspicious looking irregularly shaped, very large black thing....... seriously, it looked like it might contain a small lounge chair or perhaps some arcane piece of machinery. The very athletic looking man in a black suit shouldered it easily and strode out the door. Maybe it contained his fitness equipment.
I am in Orlando, so this time around there were an unusual number of small travelers in the area. Many of them were watching intently for their own luggage. Unlike the weary adults, they were SO EXCITED when they spied their familiar bags. Inevitably, it was a pink Barbie bag or a blue Mickey Mouse bag or a red bag with dalmatians on it. And the kids claimed them with such glee!
The slightly older kids had graduated to more somber looking bags and had been conditioned to stare impassively at the parade of luggage. They even imitated their parents' casual approach to pulling the bag from the passing line-up.
I think it's sad that we train all that joy and delight and openness out of our kids. I wonder if the world would be a better place if adults were excited about little things a little more often........ little things like finding your own luggage at baggage claim.
I've always enjoyed people-watching. I"m adding baggage claim to my list of great places to enjoy the antics of my fellow humans.
Some people elbow their way up to the initial spots along the conveyor. Some people take a spot further down the route where there is less congestion. Others stand back, watching, and then dart through the line for a just-in-time bag retreival.
Some people are "informers" who announce to the crowd, "there it is!" and then "here it comes" and then "ah........ got it!" They apprarently think everyone else in the area is gathered to watch them get their luggage. Perhaps they are surprised that there is no applause when they triumphantly carry their bags out.
Others are completely preoccupied with their cell phone conversations and only glance toward the bags occasionally, as though picking up the bag is the least important thing they are doing that day. I used to think there must be some billion dollar deal going on -- but then I heard a guy say 'do we also need milk?'
It's fun to guess which bags belong to which people, especially the unusual bags. Can I spot the person who will retreive the golf clubs or the serious backpacking gear? Which one will grab the purple and pink flowered bag? This time there was a suspicious looking irregularly shaped, very large black thing....... seriously, it looked like it might contain a small lounge chair or perhaps some arcane piece of machinery. The very athletic looking man in a black suit shouldered it easily and strode out the door. Maybe it contained his fitness equipment.
I am in Orlando, so this time around there were an unusual number of small travelers in the area. Many of them were watching intently for their own luggage. Unlike the weary adults, they were SO EXCITED when they spied their familiar bags. Inevitably, it was a pink Barbie bag or a blue Mickey Mouse bag or a red bag with dalmatians on it. And the kids claimed them with such glee!
The slightly older kids had graduated to more somber looking bags and had been conditioned to stare impassively at the parade of luggage. They even imitated their parents' casual approach to pulling the bag from the passing line-up.
I think it's sad that we train all that joy and delight and openness out of our kids. I wonder if the world would be a better place if adults were excited about little things a little more often........ little things like finding your own luggage at baggage claim.
I've always enjoyed people-watching. I"m adding baggage claim to my list of great places to enjoy the antics of my fellow humans.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Choosing a table
Have you ever watched people in a fast food restaurant? Specifically, have you ever watched them choosing where they will sit?
Not long ago I stopped in a fast food restaurant for a quick lunch. It was a place I had never visited before. It was a large building, able to provide food for many people at the same time and very busy.
From the moment I entered, it was clear which people were "regulars" and knew the routine, and which (like me) were newcomers unfamiliar with the procedures. I stood in between the fences that indicated where the line should form and tried to decipher the menu on the wall.
Since this was a FAST food restaurant, I knew that I would need to place my order quickly when the clerk said, "Can I help you?" You see, I understand my responsibility as a customer.
With only a few mis-steps, I placed my order for lunch and then picked up my food at an adjacent counter when they called my number. Again, being careful to not slow down any part of the FAST food delivery system.
That's when my search began. Which table would it be? The intricacies of table-picking are many. Would it be far away from the action and secluded, or would it be close to the food service area? Would it be a table or a booth? Would it be indoors or outdoors? Would it be a small two-person table (barely big enough for my coke, let alone my lunch) or would I be brave enough, crass enough to take a four-person table where there would be room to avoid spills? And on and on.
Finally, I settled on a compromise. I chose a two-person table over against an interior wall, not near the food service, but facing that area so that I could people-watch. And then the fun began.
A woman appeared with her lunch, glancing around, obviously looking for something specific. Her face reported when she found what she sought. She walked over and claimed a table for eight by putting her tray down, then she looked up, ready to signal her co-lunchers. Ah, she was a scout!
Next came a teenage boy who walked straight through without glancing to either side. He headed straight to the outdoor seating area, his spot predetermined by the glorious weather.
Next came a young woman who glanced nervously from side to side. She took a few steps one way, then hesitated, then moved a different direction and faltered. About that time her friend joined her and led the way to a table. Co-dependency in table selection.
A man paused at the threshold of the dining room and then marched purposefully to the far side of the room where he occupied a table for four, spreading his lunch and his papers and books over the entire surface. He was quickly absorbed in his work and totally unaware of anyone else in the place.
From my bastion of safety (an already chosen table), I watched a fascinating parade of diners step up and deal with the challenge of table selection. I wonder at the fact that personalities, insecurities, and personal preferences would be so clearly displayed in such an innocuous decision.
Not long ago I stopped in a fast food restaurant for a quick lunch. It was a place I had never visited before. It was a large building, able to provide food for many people at the same time and very busy.
From the moment I entered, it was clear which people were "regulars" and knew the routine, and which (like me) were newcomers unfamiliar with the procedures. I stood in between the fences that indicated where the line should form and tried to decipher the menu on the wall.
Since this was a FAST food restaurant, I knew that I would need to place my order quickly when the clerk said, "Can I help you?" You see, I understand my responsibility as a customer.
With only a few mis-steps, I placed my order for lunch and then picked up my food at an adjacent counter when they called my number. Again, being careful to not slow down any part of the FAST food delivery system.
That's when my search began. Which table would it be? The intricacies of table-picking are many. Would it be far away from the action and secluded, or would it be close to the food service area? Would it be a table or a booth? Would it be indoors or outdoors? Would it be a small two-person table (barely big enough for my coke, let alone my lunch) or would I be brave enough, crass enough to take a four-person table where there would be room to avoid spills? And on and on.
Finally, I settled on a compromise. I chose a two-person table over against an interior wall, not near the food service, but facing that area so that I could people-watch. And then the fun began.
A woman appeared with her lunch, glancing around, obviously looking for something specific. Her face reported when she found what she sought. She walked over and claimed a table for eight by putting her tray down, then she looked up, ready to signal her co-lunchers. Ah, she was a scout!
Next came a teenage boy who walked straight through without glancing to either side. He headed straight to the outdoor seating area, his spot predetermined by the glorious weather.
Next came a young woman who glanced nervously from side to side. She took a few steps one way, then hesitated, then moved a different direction and faltered. About that time her friend joined her and led the way to a table. Co-dependency in table selection.
A man paused at the threshold of the dining room and then marched purposefully to the far side of the room where he occupied a table for four, spreading his lunch and his papers and books over the entire surface. He was quickly absorbed in his work and totally unaware of anyone else in the place.
From my bastion of safety (an already chosen table), I watched a fascinating parade of diners step up and deal with the challenge of table selection. I wonder at the fact that personalities, insecurities, and personal preferences would be so clearly displayed in such an innocuous decision.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Garbles
One of the things I enjoy doing is listening. I mean, really listening. It's amazing what you hear!
The other day I heard a person say that the options available to us "run the gambit." This was a new manglement to me. Usually, I hear confusion of the phrases 'run the gamut' and 'run the gauntlet' -- which are of course two very different things!
Recently a preacher talked about a joyous person in the Bible, and I swear the preacher said that the person let out a "Whale of hallelujah!" On another Sunday morning a speaker talked about despair and the dismal feeling of absolute disparity. Huh?
The other day I heard a person say that the options available to us "run the gambit." This was a new manglement to me. Usually, I hear confusion of the phrases 'run the gamut' and 'run the gauntlet' -- which are of course two very different things!
Recently a preacher talked about a joyous person in the Bible, and I swear the preacher said that the person let out a "Whale of hallelujah!" On another Sunday morning a speaker talked about despair and the dismal feeling of absolute disparity. Huh?
I also find great amusement in the earth-shaking pronouncements by media. A tv reporter recently observed: "The outcome of the election will depend on who votes." Now, I know what he meant, but on the face of it the statement is a big DUH.
Sports announcers are always good for "really listening." After a long discussion of the various strengths of the two teams and the intricate strategies they would employ, one announcer closed the segment with, "It will all come down to who can score the most points." Well ............ yeah.
In today's world of information overload and constant communication, it has become a hobby of mine to listen closely. So if you see me chuckle when no one told a joke, or if you see me smile inexplicably, now you will know why.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Voting dance
Today I voted.
I left the house early and drove to a nearby middle school. Because I had decided to vote on my way to work, I found myself caught in the morning school traffic. I competed with parents of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders for access to the area near the gym. They wanted to drop off their kids; I wanted to park and vote.
A line had formed inside the door. When I entered, I couldn't tell which person was the end of the line so I asked, not wanting to make a wrong assumption. All Americans know the importance of lines and not violating the queue.
Our family has traveled just enough to know that other cultures do not have the "line" tradition. It's not that the other cultures are rude -- they simply haven't adopted that particular idea of ordering themselves one behind the other.
I mused on the intricacies of lining up as I waited in the gym. Each person must stand just the right distance from the person ahead -- not too close (we like our space!) but not too far because that would damage the integrity of the line.
As new people entered the door, most asked -- as I had -- for clarification on the end of the line. Because the line wasn't moving very fast and the number of prospective voters was increasing rapidly, the line-standers had to move in such a way to curl the line away from the door and back into the interior of the area. This was important because it was very cold outside, and the line-standers were being considerate of new arrivals. Thoughtfulness. Group cooperativeness. An interesting unspoken "dance" among strangers.
Periodically, people who had completed voting returned from the interior, approaching the door area. Without a word, people parted the line to allow the voters to exit. Again, it was a procedure of silent assent. Everyone seemed to know just how to move to allow passage without damaging the line in any way. Simultaneously, three people stepped forward and three other people stepped back, creating a gap for the leaver. In some ways it resembled a waltz.
It was actually a beautiful collaborative effort. And the voting was cool too. All of us coming together, with our different perspectives, with our varying opinions -- but all of us participating in this shared dance to select our leaders. Leaving space for each other. Helping each other find the right spot in the line. Respecting each other's position. Taking turns.
I left the house early and drove to a nearby middle school. Because I had decided to vote on my way to work, I found myself caught in the morning school traffic. I competed with parents of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders for access to the area near the gym. They wanted to drop off their kids; I wanted to park and vote.
A line had formed inside the door. When I entered, I couldn't tell which person was the end of the line so I asked, not wanting to make a wrong assumption. All Americans know the importance of lines and not violating the queue.
Our family has traveled just enough to know that other cultures do not have the "line" tradition. It's not that the other cultures are rude -- they simply haven't adopted that particular idea of ordering themselves one behind the other.
I mused on the intricacies of lining up as I waited in the gym. Each person must stand just the right distance from the person ahead -- not too close (we like our space!) but not too far because that would damage the integrity of the line.
As new people entered the door, most asked -- as I had -- for clarification on the end of the line. Because the line wasn't moving very fast and the number of prospective voters was increasing rapidly, the line-standers had to move in such a way to curl the line away from the door and back into the interior of the area. This was important because it was very cold outside, and the line-standers were being considerate of new arrivals. Thoughtfulness. Group cooperativeness. An interesting unspoken "dance" among strangers.
Periodically, people who had completed voting returned from the interior, approaching the door area. Without a word, people parted the line to allow the voters to exit. Again, it was a procedure of silent assent. Everyone seemed to know just how to move to allow passage without damaging the line in any way. Simultaneously, three people stepped forward and three other people stepped back, creating a gap for the leaver. In some ways it resembled a waltz.
It was actually a beautiful collaborative effort. And the voting was cool too. All of us coming together, with our different perspectives, with our varying opinions -- but all of us participating in this shared dance to select our leaders. Leaving space for each other. Helping each other find the right spot in the line. Respecting each other's position. Taking turns.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Close and Far
I don't know about you, but my understanding of proximity is undergoing a definitional realignment.
When I was a kid, nearness was always a geographical thing. People talked to people who were nearby.
We COULD talk to folks who were far removed; we did have long distance telephoning -- but that was limited to very special occasions (births, deaths, etc) and everyone knew to talk very fast indeed because the per/minute rate was a king's ransome.
We had reunions once a year to catch up on what was happening with relatives. If we lived in different towns, it was the only time we conversed. Some people wrote letters in between reunions, but that was usually done by grandmothers who had lots of time on their hands.
Now life is very different. I find that I am close to people who use the communications tools available to us. People who email or use that ubitquitous cell phone are immediate in my experience.
At the same time, a person three offices down from mine with whom I do not exchange email might just as well be several states removed.
Somehow the definitions of proximity and nearness have changed. I wonder what the ripple effect of that will be?
When I was a kid, nearness was always a geographical thing. People talked to people who were nearby.
We COULD talk to folks who were far removed; we did have long distance telephoning -- but that was limited to very special occasions (births, deaths, etc) and everyone knew to talk very fast indeed because the per/minute rate was a king's ransome.
We had reunions once a year to catch up on what was happening with relatives. If we lived in different towns, it was the only time we conversed. Some people wrote letters in between reunions, but that was usually done by grandmothers who had lots of time on their hands.
Now life is very different. I find that I am close to people who use the communications tools available to us. People who email or use that ubitquitous cell phone are immediate in my experience.
At the same time, a person three offices down from mine with whom I do not exchange email might just as well be several states removed.
Somehow the definitions of proximity and nearness have changed. I wonder what the ripple effect of that will be?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
New day
Saturday morning I was in the Tahoe and headed out of town while it was still dark. I love watching the night turn to day.
On Saturday, it was cold and mostly clear. The temperature on the vehicle's thermometer bounced from 40 to 39 to 42 to 37 as we rolled along the highway.
The sky just above the horizon to the east began to grow slightly lighter, changing from black to charcoal grey. Trees and buildings began to show in silhouette in a tone-on-tone subtlety, scarcely visible but undeniable.
I'm amazed by the acuity of our eyes, the distinctions of our perceptions. The eye-brain team is truly a wonderment!
A tiny hint of red-orange invades the charcoal grey of the eastern sky. The grey lightens to a medium grey and extends its reach to a larger part of the horizon. The barest bits of pink and lilac begin to appear on the wispy, striated clouds angling across that part of the sky.
I love this part of dawn. It's still dark, but the promise of light, the promise of color is vivid in its potential. All the earth seems to be holding its breath, anticipating the day that is surely coming.
Then the tiny glints of pink and gold and lilac and aqua begin to show on clouds throughout the whole dome of the sky, as the approaching sun stretches its influence across the entire expanse. Everywhere you look, the signs of morning are unfolding, blossoming.
The eastern sky lightens and lightens, to a delicate aqua with gold highlights, pulling everyone's attention to the east. Does on the edge of a pasture stare at the spectacle. Strangely, we roll past a field where buffalo snort their foggy-looking breath in the early morning air; they too seem frozen in amazement as the sun trumpets its nearness.
Finally, the glory of the morning sun glides over the horizon, shooting powerful red-orange rays in all directions, setting bushes and trees and barns aglow. The blazing shafts of light make the morning dew sparkle and provides a rosy excitement to ordinary things.
As I said, I never tire of this daily celebration of a new day. What a joy to watch the earth wake up to a fresh morning, full of promise!
On Saturday, it was cold and mostly clear. The temperature on the vehicle's thermometer bounced from 40 to 39 to 42 to 37 as we rolled along the highway.
The sky just above the horizon to the east began to grow slightly lighter, changing from black to charcoal grey. Trees and buildings began to show in silhouette in a tone-on-tone subtlety, scarcely visible but undeniable.
I'm amazed by the acuity of our eyes, the distinctions of our perceptions. The eye-brain team is truly a wonderment!
A tiny hint of red-orange invades the charcoal grey of the eastern sky. The grey lightens to a medium grey and extends its reach to a larger part of the horizon. The barest bits of pink and lilac begin to appear on the wispy, striated clouds angling across that part of the sky.
I love this part of dawn. It's still dark, but the promise of light, the promise of color is vivid in its potential. All the earth seems to be holding its breath, anticipating the day that is surely coming.
Then the tiny glints of pink and gold and lilac and aqua begin to show on clouds throughout the whole dome of the sky, as the approaching sun stretches its influence across the entire expanse. Everywhere you look, the signs of morning are unfolding, blossoming.
The eastern sky lightens and lightens, to a delicate aqua with gold highlights, pulling everyone's attention to the east. Does on the edge of a pasture stare at the spectacle. Strangely, we roll past a field where buffalo snort their foggy-looking breath in the early morning air; they too seem frozen in amazement as the sun trumpets its nearness.
Finally, the glory of the morning sun glides over the horizon, shooting powerful red-orange rays in all directions, setting bushes and trees and barns aglow. The blazing shafts of light make the morning dew sparkle and provides a rosy excitement to ordinary things.
As I said, I never tire of this daily celebration of a new day. What a joy to watch the earth wake up to a fresh morning, full of promise!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Bumpy cough drops
It's that time of year: time for sniffles and coughs and the usual winter ailments.
It's hard to go any place where you don't hear someone clearing his throat or sneezing or snorting. The paraphenalia of sickness takes over too. Boxes of tissues pop up on every table and cabinet, and space heaters proliferate.
Along with the tissues, comes an array of pills and nose spray and the ubiquitous cough drop.
I'm partial to cherry flavored cough drops, and I typically buy the store brand variety. I do wonder, however, why those cough drops are molded the way they are.
I can't really see what the shape is supposed to represent. I'm sure it was supposed to have some brand significance even though it is invisible to me and therefore totally ineffective in that regard.
The bumpy surface does get my attention, however, because it has a tendency to tear up the roof of my mouth.
So -- here's the picture: you are sick to begin with. Your nose is stuffy and sore. Your throat hurts. And now to top it all off, the roof of your mouth is injured and painful.
I think we need to adopt a policy that requires all cough drops to be smoothly shaped. Is that too much to ask?
It's hard to go any place where you don't hear someone clearing his throat or sneezing or snorting. The paraphenalia of sickness takes over too. Boxes of tissues pop up on every table and cabinet, and space heaters proliferate.
Along with the tissues, comes an array of pills and nose spray and the ubiquitous cough drop.
I'm partial to cherry flavored cough drops, and I typically buy the store brand variety. I do wonder, however, why those cough drops are molded the way they are.
I can't really see what the shape is supposed to represent. I'm sure it was supposed to have some brand significance even though it is invisible to me and therefore totally ineffective in that regard.
The bumpy surface does get my attention, however, because it has a tendency to tear up the roof of my mouth.
So -- here's the picture: you are sick to begin with. Your nose is stuffy and sore. Your throat hurts. And now to top it all off, the roof of your mouth is injured and painful.
I think we need to adopt a policy that requires all cough drops to be smoothly shaped. Is that too much to ask?
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Bouquets of Friends
I've noticed that I don't so much pick my friends as they pick me, or maybe more accurately, we become friends as a result of circumstances, not because of a strategic plan on my part.
Does that mean that I am a lazy friend? Does that mean that others should not value my friendship? No, I don't think so. Our friendships are valid and strong and nonetheless beautiful despite their haphazard origins. We are thrown together in shared activities (our kids' soccer team) or whatever, and relationship grows.
For me, it doesn't happen with everyone in my path -- I think there are probably others who become friends with everyone they meet! How wonderful! -- but for me, there is some sort of chemistry that either takes place or doesn't.
And as I get older, I love the decades-long friendships that I have with a few people. We've seen each other through all sorts of life experiences, and the depth of our relationships is comforting.
On the other hand, it is still a delight to make a new friend. The uncharted territory of new perspectives, new opinions, new experiences is exciting. (And suddenly all my old stories are new again!)
Friends are certainly one of the sweetest blessings in life.
Over the years I've realized that all my friends are not created equal. By that, I mean that each person has his/her own personality, strengths, and weaknesses. Each person is valuable for his/her own unique traits, and one of the best things in my life is that my friends contribute to my daily walk in many different ways.
There are friends that make me laugh. There are friends that see through me and hold me accountable. There are friends who talk about deep thoughts with me. There are friends who are comforting to share time with, and on and on.
I'm blessed to have a whole bouquet of friends.
Does that mean that I am a lazy friend? Does that mean that others should not value my friendship? No, I don't think so. Our friendships are valid and strong and nonetheless beautiful despite their haphazard origins. We are thrown together in shared activities (our kids' soccer team) or whatever, and relationship grows.
For me, it doesn't happen with everyone in my path -- I think there are probably others who become friends with everyone they meet! How wonderful! -- but for me, there is some sort of chemistry that either takes place or doesn't.
And as I get older, I love the decades-long friendships that I have with a few people. We've seen each other through all sorts of life experiences, and the depth of our relationships is comforting.
On the other hand, it is still a delight to make a new friend. The uncharted territory of new perspectives, new opinions, new experiences is exciting. (And suddenly all my old stories are new again!)
Friends are certainly one of the sweetest blessings in life.
Over the years I've realized that all my friends are not created equal. By that, I mean that each person has his/her own personality, strengths, and weaknesses. Each person is valuable for his/her own unique traits, and one of the best things in my life is that my friends contribute to my daily walk in many different ways.
There are friends that make me laugh. There are friends that see through me and hold me accountable. There are friends who talk about deep thoughts with me. There are friends who are comforting to share time with, and on and on.
I'm blessed to have a whole bouquet of friends.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Deep Pockets
In the business world when I hear the words 'deep pockets' I think of someone or some organization with a lot of money.
But lately I've been thinking about those words in a very different context.
Since it is January, the month of bone-chilling winds, I've had occasion to pull out my winter coats. One of my favorite coats is a simple black wool coat.
I like the fabric, I like the weight, I like the fit of this particular coat. But the thing about the coat that I most enjoy is that it has deep pockets...... deep, cozy, luxurious pockets.
I have several coats and jackets that have shallow pockets. When I try to warm up my hands in these pockets, I feel cheated, literally left out in the cold. Why would anyone put shallow pockets in a winter garment?
I've read that during times of tight economies (i.e. during the depression and during the rationing of World War II) the difficult times were reflected in women's fashions. In other words, during these times, lapels would get narrow or disappear, trouser legs get narrower and have no cuffs, skirts get straighter, and pockets disappear. The idea is to be as efficient with costly fabric as possible.
Maybe that idea lurking in the back of my head is what causes me to associate deep pockets with luxury. Knowing that doing without pockets has been associated with times of poverty or deprivation makes pockets seem like such an extravagance.
And it isn't just about winter coats. It's also about jeans and skirts and house robes. Deep, comfortable pockets are simply one of life's great joys!
May all your clothes be blessed with great pockets.
But lately I've been thinking about those words in a very different context.
Since it is January, the month of bone-chilling winds, I've had occasion to pull out my winter coats. One of my favorite coats is a simple black wool coat.
I like the fabric, I like the weight, I like the fit of this particular coat. But the thing about the coat that I most enjoy is that it has deep pockets...... deep, cozy, luxurious pockets.
I have several coats and jackets that have shallow pockets. When I try to warm up my hands in these pockets, I feel cheated, literally left out in the cold. Why would anyone put shallow pockets in a winter garment?
I've read that during times of tight economies (i.e. during the depression and during the rationing of World War II) the difficult times were reflected in women's fashions. In other words, during these times, lapels would get narrow or disappear, trouser legs get narrower and have no cuffs, skirts get straighter, and pockets disappear. The idea is to be as efficient with costly fabric as possible.
Maybe that idea lurking in the back of my head is what causes me to associate deep pockets with luxury. Knowing that doing without pockets has been associated with times of poverty or deprivation makes pockets seem like such an extravagance.
And it isn't just about winter coats. It's also about jeans and skirts and house robes. Deep, comfortable pockets are simply one of life's great joys!
May all your clothes be blessed with great pockets.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Why is it . . .
Why is it that when a cold front blows in and the wind is so frigid that it cuts right through you, that's when my gas tank is empty and I have to stop to fill up?
Why is it that when I have less than 10 items in the store and can go through the speedy checkout, everyone else in the store has less than 10 items too?
Why is it that when you finally find the laptop you want at the right price, they only have the display computer left?
Why is it that the night I decide that I want cereal for dinner it's the night that we are out of milk?
Why is it that the day I'm presenting strategies to the executive management team is the same day that a random section of my hair protrudes awkwardly off the side of my head?
Why is it that the ice hangs tenaciously in the bottom of the cup regardless of how you tap it until the entire glob of ice plummets onto your face (and shirt) ?
Why is it that the neighborhood is totally abandoned until you get halfway to the newspaper in your nightgown?
Why is it that I always go in and out of my office building alone until the day that I trip over nothing in the parking lot and that day my boss happens along?
Why is it that the zit appears on picture-taking day?
Why is it that when I have less than 10 items in the store and can go through the speedy checkout, everyone else in the store has less than 10 items too?
Why is it that when you finally find the laptop you want at the right price, they only have the display computer left?
Why is it that the night I decide that I want cereal for dinner it's the night that we are out of milk?
Why is it that the day I'm presenting strategies to the executive management team is the same day that a random section of my hair protrudes awkwardly off the side of my head?
Why is it that the ice hangs tenaciously in the bottom of the cup regardless of how you tap it until the entire glob of ice plummets onto your face (and shirt) ?
Why is it that the neighborhood is totally abandoned until you get halfway to the newspaper in your nightgown?
Why is it that I always go in and out of my office building alone until the day that I trip over nothing in the parking lot and that day my boss happens along?
Why is it that the zit appears on picture-taking day?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Refrigerators
I've been noticing the contents of refrigerators lately and wondering about the significance therein.
Let me explain. I am most intimately familiar with the refrigerator in my own kitchen and the refrigerator in the employee break room at my office.
Last month my own refrigerator was crammed full of gift foods from friends and the special ingredients for holiday meals. Front and center was the smoked turkey someone sent me, while specialty cheeses from some gift baskets were tucked into odd corners and crevices. My husband's special cranberry salsa was there, as were the mascapone cheese for topping his luscious annual fruitcake and the unusually large amounts of celery (for the cornbread dressing!)
I could hear my own mental version of 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' everytime I opened the refrigerator door. Just like the Christmas cards displayed across the room, my refrigerator testified to the season.
At the office, there was a similar sort of thing happening. No, no one was cooking Christmas dinner at the office, but there were endless holiday celebrations throughout the month: a holiday reception one afteroon, a pot luck holiday luncheon on a different day, a celebratory breakfast shared by two neighboring divisions on still another day.
These various office events meant that the refrigerator was always full of various creations either destined for the event or leftover from the event. Throughout December, the refrigerator (and the whole breakroom) was a rich place for grazing, sampling, or sneaking a bite in the middle of the afternoon.
That was last month.
This month my home refridgerator has finally been purged of the plastic containers protecting the last vestiges of holiday dining. The interior walls and shelves of the refrigerator have had their first of the year cleaning. For the first time in weeks a visitor can actually SEE the walls and shelves. It looks somehow bereft, lonely, empty.
January brings a lot more salad ingredients, hardboiled eggs, and in the freezer section, lo-cal, small-portioned, frozen dinners. It's a bleak landscape indeed. It seems hollow and I almost expect an echo.
At the office, it's the same story. The gaudy holiday fare is replaced by carefully packed lunches and veggies. It's as though the refrigerators adopted that same resolution to eat healthy.
Ah, January . . .
Let me explain. I am most intimately familiar with the refrigerator in my own kitchen and the refrigerator in the employee break room at my office.
Last month my own refrigerator was crammed full of gift foods from friends and the special ingredients for holiday meals. Front and center was the smoked turkey someone sent me, while specialty cheeses from some gift baskets were tucked into odd corners and crevices. My husband's special cranberry salsa was there, as were the mascapone cheese for topping his luscious annual fruitcake and the unusually large amounts of celery (for the cornbread dressing!)
I could hear my own mental version of 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' everytime I opened the refrigerator door. Just like the Christmas cards displayed across the room, my refrigerator testified to the season.
At the office, there was a similar sort of thing happening. No, no one was cooking Christmas dinner at the office, but there were endless holiday celebrations throughout the month: a holiday reception one afteroon, a pot luck holiday luncheon on a different day, a celebratory breakfast shared by two neighboring divisions on still another day.
These various office events meant that the refrigerator was always full of various creations either destined for the event or leftover from the event. Throughout December, the refrigerator (and the whole breakroom) was a rich place for grazing, sampling, or sneaking a bite in the middle of the afternoon.
That was last month.
This month my home refridgerator has finally been purged of the plastic containers protecting the last vestiges of holiday dining. The interior walls and shelves of the refrigerator have had their first of the year cleaning. For the first time in weeks a visitor can actually SEE the walls and shelves. It looks somehow bereft, lonely, empty.
January brings a lot more salad ingredients, hardboiled eggs, and in the freezer section, lo-cal, small-portioned, frozen dinners. It's a bleak landscape indeed. It seems hollow and I almost expect an echo.
At the office, it's the same story. The gaudy holiday fare is replaced by carefully packed lunches and veggies. It's as though the refrigerators adopted that same resolution to eat healthy.
Ah, January . . .
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Time Travel
Santa brought me an Ipod Nano. This tiny thing has more memory that an entire university faculty. I have been diligently feeding it albums from our collection, and the little bar at the bottom of the screen has hardly budged. Amazing.
It's a voracious little device. It feels like I am pouring my favorite music into a black hole that is hungry for more and more. Absolutely fascinating. But unlike a black hole, this cute little thing serves up all this music on command from my pocket.
Along the way, I am listening to dusty CDs that I had almost forgotten we own. I'm feeling that glow of renewed friendships. I am delighted by album after album, song after song. Ah, yes . . . that's why I liked this song. Ha! I love that great phrase in those lyrics. And that one still makes me want to dance around the room.
I've always enjoyed a wide variety of music, and the task of loading the ipod is reminding me just how many kinds of sounds speak to me. Beatles (of course!). Glenn Miller, courtesy of my dad. Classical music I've learned to love. Other music introduced to me by my kids.
And many songs evoke an almost palpable memory, a feeling of time and place and mood and relationships so strong that I feel like a time traveler visiting my high school years, my first apartment, my parent's house, my favorite car, a transistor radio beside a swimming pool, the first FM station I heard.
In the blink of an eye with the first few notes of a song, I'm 14 years old and listening to the AM station from Oklahoma City late at night when the reception was better. Next I'm sitting in a dorm room on a college campus with girlfriends. Like the background music in a movie, these songs provide cues and context for the stories of my life.
The performers are like old friends who have seen me through my ups and downs. It seems that we have shared so much over the years, and it is a delight to visit with them as I load them into this new toy.
What a delightful way to begin a new year: not just reviewing 2007, but enjoying music from many years past.
It's a voracious little device. It feels like I am pouring my favorite music into a black hole that is hungry for more and more. Absolutely fascinating. But unlike a black hole, this cute little thing serves up all this music on command from my pocket.
Along the way, I am listening to dusty CDs that I had almost forgotten we own. I'm feeling that glow of renewed friendships. I am delighted by album after album, song after song. Ah, yes . . . that's why I liked this song. Ha! I love that great phrase in those lyrics. And that one still makes me want to dance around the room.
I've always enjoyed a wide variety of music, and the task of loading the ipod is reminding me just how many kinds of sounds speak to me. Beatles (of course!). Glenn Miller, courtesy of my dad. Classical music I've learned to love. Other music introduced to me by my kids.
And many songs evoke an almost palpable memory, a feeling of time and place and mood and relationships so strong that I feel like a time traveler visiting my high school years, my first apartment, my parent's house, my favorite car, a transistor radio beside a swimming pool, the first FM station I heard.
In the blink of an eye with the first few notes of a song, I'm 14 years old and listening to the AM station from Oklahoma City late at night when the reception was better. Next I'm sitting in a dorm room on a college campus with girlfriends. Like the background music in a movie, these songs provide cues and context for the stories of my life.
The performers are like old friends who have seen me through my ups and downs. It seems that we have shared so much over the years, and it is a delight to visit with them as I load them into this new toy.
What a delightful way to begin a new year: not just reviewing 2007, but enjoying music from many years past.
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